The Best Part of a Day
by Cordelia McGonagall
Summary: Ron is a morning person and so is his daughter, Rose. A little shot of pure fluffiness. Thanks to JKR for stories and characters which are not my own.


_**A/N: This small fic was written for Round 4 of the Quidditch FanFiction League Competition. As Chaser 2 for Puddlemere United, I needed to write a story about happiness that doesn't use the words "happy" or "happiness." My optional prompts were a restriction of *no* dialogue, the word "dawn," and the word, "tranquil." To get fully in the mood, I listened to the song, "These Are Days," by 10,000 Maniacs from the album**_ _ **Our Time in Eden**_ _ **. Give it a listen, & thank you for reading!**_

The Best Part of a Day

Ron loved mornings. He loved the damp chill of the dew evaporating on the blanket of green lawn in the back garden. He loved the tranquil stillness of the garden pond, the water a steely blue before the dawn. Mornings held promise, a menu of opportunities from which he could choose. Today, as he did every morning, he chose to let his exhausted wife sleep. Before he had company in the mornings, he used to leave Hermione in their bedroom and run, using the pre-dawn to think. She was a night owl who opened her study windows to night owls from other Ministry officials working by candlelight. For now, she was up well into the night nursing Rose, and although Ron would have helped Hermione regardless of the burden, he looked forward to scooping his lonely newborn out of her cot below the starry sky of a charmed nursery ceiling and snuggling with her during the fresh part of the day.

He opened the window gently, just enough to smell the white primroses he'd planted in large swaths the year he'd bought the cottage. The bundle nestled in his arm stirred, and he tucked the pink cotton blanket around a tiny shoulder. Ron dragged a footstool over with his toe and eased himself into a rocking chair. Propping his legs up slightly, he gently lowered Rose onto his lap, facing him. She was so new, her legs curled up as they must have done in the weeks before her birth. He wrapped her back in her blanket, save one delicate fist which held fast to his finger. He'd held Teddy, and then Victoire, and James, and a steady stream of beautiful Weasley babies, but he never understood the perfect joy, the love, the absolute rightness of it all until his Rose.

Her eyes were closed now in the frown of sleep, her breath even, quick huffs. Ron smoothed her brow with his thumb and ran a finger across one pink cheek. He heard a creak of a floorboard and looked up to see his mum, who leaned her head on the doorjamb and smiled at him. He smiled back, and she gave a tired little wave and padded toward the kitchen, where he could hear the soft clink of dishes and pots, the wizarding wireless turned low.

Ron settled his gaze back on his daughter. She had his wife's nose, and chin, and petite ears. Her eyes, when open, were still the mercury of the pre-dawn pond, but his mum predicted they would clear to Weasley blue. Her hair would mark her as his for life, but the ginger wisps were gathering into her mother's curls.

A gust of wind made her stir, and Ron carefully arranged her head on his shoulder and stood to close the window. He looked out again to the garden below. The cottage had been his proud purchase; he didn't want to pressure Hermione into an early marriage, but he'd grown weary of living in the small flat in London. He'd asked her advice about it all - the house, the placement of flowers, the color of the walls. The garden had filled in since then, but he could still look down on the winding pea gravel path that led to a rambling meadow and remember the quiet morning run, five miles of rehearsal, as he muttered, and edited, and felt his proposal. And it was he, kneeling before the stone bench under the tree peony on a cool spring morning in May, who thought that he couldn't be more lucky when Hermione nodded down at him through tears. That was the best part of his day, but Ron, as he rocked the warm babe in his arms, knew with certainty that there would be many more best parts of best days to come.

* * *

And later...

Rose padded softly down the hallway, her thin flannel nightgown a poor defense against the chill of a wet spring. She didn't go back for a robe, for soon she'd be warm. Her small frame, picking the way down the stairs, couldn't yet make the fourth step creak like Mummy could before Hugo was born. Mummy was still curled up in bed next to Hugo in his basinet; Rose knew better than to wake them, and she didn't want to - not during this best part of her day.

Daddy was in the cozy kitchen, as he always was in the mornings, reading the paper and drinking his tea. He was waiting for her, and he smiled sleepily as he heard her bare feet shuffle across the stone floor. Wordlessly, she'd snuggle into his lap. And just like always, he summoned a hot bowl of porridge to settle in front of them. He reached for the milk, and then the syrup, adding both in exact proportions, and then he took a tiny spoonful, blowing on it exactly three times before handing her the spoon. Rose ate in silence, but she didn't need words for her father who felt just the same about it all. To Rose, this tranquil ritual was the best part of her day. Rose loved mornings.


End file.
